by syllable, the dead
become our words.
And our words,
in the right
environment, might
ferment
into our wishes.
And after millennia
of compounding
and sweetening underground,
some wishes are enriched
and condense into
pure insight.
Meanwhile, the living
are wandering
and starving—
oblivious to the nourishment
extractable
from tragedy;
they'd rather live
on rancid fumes
from breathless
tales of loaves
and fishes.
